Birds of a Feather
by Dolly Ann
Summary: When sleeping demons of the ancient past awaken and a hero descends to the surface for the first time in ages in order to do battle with them, two young men find their destinies strangely tied to the fate of the hero... and each other. MXM
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

It was a sunny day in Skyloft. The bazaar had just opened for business, as it always did early in the morning, and the skies were their usual pretty blue. Clouds were slowly drifting by, tearing softly apart as they floated into the island's cliffside, before clumping back together at the other end. The breeze was gentle – the perfect kind for taking a loftwing out for flight.

Today was the day of the Wing Ceremony, a day when the undergraduate boys of Skyloft would compete to earn their senior class merits. At the island's edge, they would leap into the abyss of atmosphere below and whistle for their winged companions. Some took a running start, others tumbled forward uncertainly, and the show offs would leap backwards and somersault their way into the sky. In a matter of seconds, seconds that brought meaning to the difference between the sure-footedness on land and the terror of falling forever, they mounted their loft wings, soaring deep into the sky, seeking the ultimate prize that would mark their status from boys to men…

* * *

"Don't forget to nail it at each end of the wood, you beetle brain – otherwise the bird's just gonna kick it off!" Groose barked, grabbing the hammer from Cawlin and pounding in a nail himself.

"Yeah, _beetle _brain," Strich chuckled.

"I was _getting _there," Cawlin protested haughtily. "Don't get your pompadour in a ruff."

Groose harrumphed and smoothed a hand over his carefully styled hair. He felt his healthy red roots, thick with lush growth from copious conditioning, and the careful curl at the ends. He relished the glide of the mousse beneath his fingertips, which felt as smooth as marble countertop, but slick like dewy fern leaves after a late night rain. This was the way a man's hair was supposed to be – proud, upright, groomed to perfection. A man of his word never failed to dollop a liberal amount of Chu Jelly to his mane in the morning and spread it through like his breakfast butter on toast. Manhood, after all, was about erection in every sense of the word: if your hair stood tall, you stood tall; if you stood tall, well… obviously, everything else would stand tall in its place.

But not if your hair was mussed up, wild and ragged, chopped like an overgrown bush, sticking this way and that with no sense of order or intention or statement.

Not like Link's sloppy mop!

Groose mentally groaned at the thought of that ghastly example of a man's hairdo. What, had he stuck his head under one of the windmill propellers to lop off the bangs that were persistently hanging in his face? Or had he simply slathered his hair in breakfast mush and offered his head to his loftwing so that the beast could chew off the ends he found too bothersome? Perhaps it was neither. Perhaps Link just presided over a club of manless men with most unmanly hairdos and maintained his amateurish, unmanly bob in order to retain his authority. Groose didn't like this idea, though. He didn't like the idea of Link being president of anything, even a club for unmanly, unstylish losers. He mentally demoted him to the position of secretary and felt much better about the whole thing.

As he smiled to himself, pacing back and forth with each idea that bubbled into his brain, Cawlin and Strich watched him warily.

"He's been doing this a lot lately," Cawlin sighed. "You don't think he's nervous about the Wing Ceremony at all?"

Strich shrugged. "With Link as flightless as a Lanayru Ant, he has nothing to fear. I mean, it's not like we're going to try to win."

"Of course not!" Cawling sniffed. "What kind of loyalty is that? We're as true to Groose as… as… uh… as a loftwing to his master! And to no one else!"

"That's not what you were muttering in your sleep last night," Strich replied.

Cawlin's eyes widened. He seemed to have forgotten about Groose who was still lost in his own thoughts. "What do you mean, 'muttering in my sleep?' I don't mutter in my sleep!"

Strich grinned. "Oh yes you do. As snug as a bug in a rug, you were – and bitten by one, as well!"

Cawlin grumbled, "What on earth are you talking about?"

"The _love_ bug," Strich said coyly in a sing-song voice.

Cawlin was catching on. His expression turned from uncertainty to horror. "_L-l-ove _bug?" he stuttered.

"Oh yes…" Strich continued on, unrelenting. He put his hand to his chin as if in great thought, staring at the sky with a mischievous smile on his face. "I'm quite sure I know who produced the nectar for it, too."

"You couldn't!" Cawlin cried, panicked. "You… you _wouldn't_!"

"Have you told Groose yet?" Strich asked casually. "Have you told him that the girl you like is—"

"GAH!" Cawlin tackled Strich, knocking the taller boy to the ground despite his smaller stature. There they scrambled and fumbled and rolled with sloppy, misplaced punches and shoves, until they tumbled into Groose, still pacing and pondering in his own subconscious realm, causing him to trip over their two tangled bodies. All the while, Link's crimson Loftwing was squawking louder and louder, contributing its own notes to the commotion.

"What are you two knuckleheads doing?" Groose shouted as he sat up, rubbing the back of his head. "Can't you tell when a man's trying to think?"

Strich was readying his tongue with a shiny glint in his eye, but Cawlin caught in time to leap on him again and recommence their brawling. Groose eyed them pitifully as they continued to struggle down the hill, yelping and hurling insults at each other.

"Dunderheads," he muttered.

He couldn't be too annoyed, though. He had just successfully imprisoned that stupid red bird, which meant that stupid unmanly Link would not be able to compete in the Wing Loft Ceremony. Which meant that he could not claim the ultimate prize – Groose flushed with warmth and sighed. _Special time alone with Zelda. _Oh Goddess, was she the most beautiful girl in all of Skyloft.

Lovely long gold tresses, dazzling blue eyes, and of course a slender waist accompanied by soft hips and shapely legs… Steamy puffs of breath were pouring out of Groose's nostrils. What he would give to have those few moments alone with her!

Certainly he was willing to sabotage that unrelenting hair offender's loftwing to seize victory. There was nothing unfair about it! Maybe if the lazy sleeper just got up at a reasonable hour in the morning for once to properly tend to his mane, he wouldn't have to worry about other people stealing his loft wing. After all, the sooner you were up and awake, the less you had to worry about other people potentially claiming your possessions for themselves. Groose himself had to protect his fine container of ChuChu jelly from the wandering hands of Cawlin. Stolen hair gel, stolen loft wing? These scenarios were undeniably parallel in Groose's mind. He had no guilt whatsoever about what he and his cronies had just done.

Which reminded him… what they had just done was for the purpose of winning the Wing Ceremony, and this undoubtedly would be starting soon. Cawlin and Strich were still scuffling, but with tired limbs and weary insults.

"Stupid… face!" Cawlin gasped between pants.

"Poop…head!" Strich replied, wheezing.

Groose gave them both a sharp kick. "Get up you morons! We're going to be late for the ceremony."

And so the three boys hurried back to the Knight Academy to make their final preparations.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ungh… _ungh!_ Gah!"

Fledge dropped the barrel in frustration, releasing a heavy sigh as he did. He looked down at the palms of his hands. They were red and raw and smarting. How many times had he tried to pick this stupid barrel up now? Ten? Fifteen? He was surprised his hands hadn't simply snapped off at the wrist. True, the barrel was only filled with apples, the snack of choice for knights-in-training and a favorite cooking ingredient of Henya, the kitchen lady—but a whole barrel of apples was actually pretty heavy!

This was Fledge's penance for not being able to match up with the other boys in the skill-building activities during the past year. From target practice to track hurdling to loftwing racing, he had always come up short. Even Cawlin, short and stocky as he was, could nail the bull's eye on a target fifty feet away with his bow.

Fledge was lucky if he could hurdle a pumpkin without trampling over his own two feet.

And so today was the day of the Wing Ceremony, and instead of preparing his loftwing for flight, he was inside the confines of the Knight Academy moving – or rather _attempting_ to move—barrels of apples.

"Fledge? Fledge! Where are you, boy? How long does it take to move a barrel?" A raspy, crotchety voice called out.

"Oh!" Fledge straightened up immediately, a rush of anxiety swelling within him. Henya was standing not twenty paces from him by the door to the kitchen. She had her hands placed staunchly on her hips and she was glaring at him.

"Fledge! What are you doing?" she barked.

"Oh… um… well, these barrels, you see…" he stammered, knowing his face was turning redder by the moment. Why did she have to look at him with those narrow, beady eyes? Didn't she know he felt bad enough about not being able to move these barrels in the first place?

"Yes, I do see. Five barrels of apples, all sitting on the floor, untouched, undisturbed, entirely unmoved. They're there and not in _here, _which is where I need them to be if I'm going to finish making sweet apple pie for the post ceremony feast," Henya said. "Or did you expect me to produce dessert from cloud dust?"

"I'm sorry…" Fledge avoided her hawk eyes by looking instead at his boots and the tiles on the floor. He wrung his hands uncomfortably. "I'll finish right away."

Henya said nothing else, but gave him a firm look that said, "You better," and then retreated back into the kitchen.

Fledge sighed and looked down at the barrels again. Five altogether – and he moved a grand total of zero. He was going nowhere soon. Where was a dolly when you needed one?

Ever since he was born in Skyloft, in a small hut on the southern edge of the island to the potion maker and her husband, he had been the meekest of all the children in the village. Where the others had gathered together in large groups to catch bugs and skip stones across the river, he had kept mostly to himself. Quietly, he would sit in the shade of a tree and play privately with a small puzzle or toy. Most of the children were content to ignore him.

But there was one boy who never could resist him, no matter how hard he tried to repel him.

"Having trouble, Fledge?"

Almost instantaneously, Fledge's face full of worry relaxed into a relieved smile.

"Oh, Link! I'm so glad you're here."

Link, good-natured in every way, was a person Fledge considered lucky to call a friend. While they had never been "best buds," Fledge always knew that Link respected him despite his weaknesses. Link was the kind of person you just couldn't help but like. He wasn't overly expressive, but he wasn't apathetic either. When you needed a vent or a second set of hands to help with a project, he was readily available. He was sturdy, dependable, and quite masculine, even with his calm blue eyes and gentle smile. Fledge often wished he could be Link – compassionate _and _competent. He was the most skilled among their classmates at just about every sport he put his hand to, and he was intelligent and friendly. Everybody liked Link because… well, he was simply perfect!

Fledge, on the other hand, was a nobody stitched together with good intentions.

"Moving barrels?" Link asked him with a small smile.

"Haha, yes… I'm trying to anyway," Fledge laughed nervously. He saw that Link was already dressed up for the wing ceremony. He had his belt wrapped neatly around his waist and his shirt, cleaned if not pressed, hung comfortably from the shoulders. His boots were strapped into place. He was ready to ride. Fledge couldn't help himself, though. "Link, I know you're really busy getting ready for the Wing Ceremony and I don't want to hold you up or anything, but do you think you might—"

Before Fledge could even say another word, Link had crouched down, grasped a barrel in his arms, and lifted it off the ground without so much as a grunt or a groan. "There's always time to help friends out, right?" he said.

A huge grin appeared on Fledge's face. He was flustered, but pleased. "Y-yes! Thank you so much, Link!" That was Link. An all-around good guy. Always there when you needed him.

But he had to admit something to himself. This was not the boy who went out of his way to make encounters with him so long ago.

Sure, Link would smile and wave hi, but he was much more interested in playing games with his closest companion, Zelda. No, it was another occupant of Skyloft who was responsible for shattering the barriers of Fledge's childhood solitude.


End file.
